


like trees to tempest-strife

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Poetry, Tender Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Aziraphale likes to read poetry aloud. Crowley likes to listen.





	1. o why lament its fall?

Crowley tilted his head to the side to see past the thick book of poetry that blocked his view of Aziraphale’s face. Looking up at the angel, he gave a soft smile, which he knew wouldn’t be seen. Aziraphale’s chin was set, his glasses low, his brow slightly furrowed, deep in thought. His tendency to silently meditate on a piece for several minutes after reading it was frustrating to Crowley for a few reasons.

For starters, Crowley rather liked to listen to Aziraphale read aloud, and the lengthy pauses between poems were not ideal. He also had a strong desire for Aziraphale to pay attention to him, though he would not often admit it in so many words. Then there was a slight annoyance on principle, as he knew Aziraphale had read and considered all of these poems a thousand times before, and why does he need to do all that thinking every time? Mostly, though, it was that look on his face. Crowley tried to avoid words like _endearing_ and _tender_ and _adorable_ , especially when it came to describing Aziraphale, but the angel made it so difficult.

After a decent length of time had passed, Crowley resolved to interrupt Aziraphale’s reverie. He nudged Aziraphale’s elbow lightly to grab his attention.

“What was that one called, again?”

The angel showed no sign of having been caught off guard, smoothly transitioning back into the real world. “That was _Gilbert_.”

Crowley nodded his head. “Mm. One of my favorites.”

“I know it is,” the angel said with a smile.

“Am I that predictable?”

That elicited a small chuckle from Aziraphale. “No, my dear boy,” he reassured Crowley. “But I think after all this time, it’s not unreasonable for me to have a sense of your literary tastes.”

“Right.” Crowley’s tongue flickered briefly along his lips. “What’s up next?”

Aziraphale turned a page in the book. “ _Passion_.”

“That sounds promising,” Crowley drawled, closing his eyes to focus on the poem and the gentle cadence of his angel’s voice.

“ _Some have won a wild delight,_  
By daring wilder sorrow;  
Could I gain thy love to-night,  
I’d hazard death to-morrow. _”_

Aziraphale held the book in one hand and let the other fall to stroke Crowley’s hair, splayed across his lap. Crowley hummed softly in response as Aziraphale continued reading. The rhythmic lilt of his voice made the poem like music, and the demon found himself unconsciously mouthing the words. By the time Aziraphale had reached the closing stanzas, Crowley was reciting under his breath alongside him.

 _“I'd die when all the foam is up,_  
_The bright wine sparkling high;_  
_Nor wait till in the exhausted cup_  
_Life's dull dregs only lie.”_

Aziraphale read the final lines and closed the book gently, a cloth ribbon holding his place. He took a deep breath to begin his rumination.

The hand that had been in Crowley’s hair was now absentmindedly resting just below his ear, Aziraphale’s knuckles barely grazing the demon’s skin. The feather-light contact didn’t distract the angel until, a few minutes later, he felt the infinitesimal movement of Crowley’s jaw. He surfaced from his deep thoughts to see what the demon was doing.

Crowley’s eyes were still closed, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, and he was muttering to himself. Aziraphale strained to hear, but he couldn’t make out the words. Instead, he simply watched, mesmerized by the movement of Crowley’s lips, the angles of his face. Like this, thinking he was unheard and unseen, Crowley looked almost innocent. Aziraphale was so enraptured, he didn’t notice when the impossibly low murmur of Crowley’s voice came to a stop. He did notice, however, when Crowley opened his eyes and looked up to find the angel staring back at him.

“Oh. Hello,” Crowley said, disarmed by the intensity of the angel’s gaze. “You don’t usually do that.”

Aziraphale swallowed, equally off guard. “Do what?”

“Look at me. During your thinking time.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said blankly. “You were talking.”

“You heard that?”

The angel shook his head softly. “Not as such, no. I felt it. Anyway, you don’t usually do that, either.”

Crowley nodded his understanding. “I do. Sometimes. When I’m not – well, sometimes.”

“When you’re not what, dear?”

Crowley’s hesitation was heavy and tangible. After a long moment, he said, “When I’m not… watching you, I guess.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “You do that?”

“Yeah.” Crowley tried to make his voice sound casual, but the word came out on a shaky breath. He inhaled deeply and brought both his hands to rest on Aziraphale’s forearm, tracing patterns in the skin, avoiding the angel’s eyes. “It’s fascinating to watch you think. You’re so transfixed, so still, like – like Roman marble, and you do this thing with your mouth that’s – well, just beautiful. I prefer the sound of your voice, but watching the way the gears turn inside your head... it amazes me.”

The angel blushed and stammered, quickly changing the subject. “So what do you, er, say? When you do your, erm, talking thing?”

Crowley quirked his head toward Aziraphale a bit, still running his long fingers along the angel’s soft skin. “Mm, different things. Mostly just whatever’s on my mind.”

“What’s on your mind today?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and sweet, but he couldn’t disguise the gravity of the question. Six thousand years and Crowley was still so reluctant to share his feelings; Aziraphale normally made a point to avoid asking so directly.

The demon inhaled sharply, swallowed hard, and let the breath out again. His hands had stilled, and he was now simply clutching Aziraphale’s arm loosely to his chest. As he spoke, his breath danced across the angel’s skin.

 _“Long ago I wished to leave_  
_The house where I was born;_  
_Long ago I used to grieve,_  
_My home seemed so forlorn._  
_In other years, its silent rooms_  
_Were filled with haunting fears;_  
_Now, their very memory comes_  
_O'ercharged with tender tears.”_

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “I know that one,” he said, “what is that?”

“That’s _Regret_ ,” Crowley answered with a sad smile.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, a wretched tilt in his voice. “My dear boy, is that how you feel?”

“Yeah, fairly often,” the demon muttered.

“There’s more,” Aziraphale said earnestly, brushing Crowley’s cheek with his fingers.

“Mm-hm. I know.”

Aziraphale gently tilted Crowley’s chin up to keep his burning gaze intact. He ran one thumb lightly along the line of Crowley’s lips, relishing the way the demon’s cheeks flushed at his touch.

 _“Yet, though I had safely pass'd_  
_That weary, vexed main,_  
_One loved voice, through surge and blast,_  
_Could call me back again._

 _Though the soul's bright morning rose_  
_O'er Paradise for me,_  
_William! even from Heaven's repose_  
_I'd turn, invoked by thee!”_

Crowley put on a fake pout. “Who’s this William bloke, then?”

“You always have to be childish right when I’m being sincere,” the angel replied fondly. “I felt it would have been a tad on the nose to throw a ‘Crowley’ in there.”

“Yes, well, when you write your own poems about me, they’d better have my name in them.” Crowley flashed a grin.

Aziraphale returned the smile easily. “We’ll have every room wallpapered with _Odes to Anthony_ , if you like.” He pushed on, honestly written in every line on his face. “I mean it, though, all of it. All of it.”

Crowley’s breath hitched at the use of his first name. He couldn’t remember the last time the angel had called him that, but he didn’t have to remember how it had made him feel, because he felt it now, a warmth flooding his chest, a twist in his gut. The name itself was trivial -- he had picked it on a whim -- but the novelty, the rarity, the intimacy of Aziraphale saying it, that was everything. The rest of the angel's words simply multiplied the feeling. He looked into Aziraphale’s impossibly blue eyes and felt the first pinpricks of tears in his own. 

“Angel…” Crowley closed his eyes, chewed on his lower lip, and finally mustered a desperate, “Thank you.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Crowley’s forehead, inhaled the scent of him, wrapped his arms around him securely. “We can find a bigger house,” he said softly, hardly a breath in Crowley’s ear. “More wall space for all the poetry.”

The demon gave a small, wet chuckle. “I like this house. And these walls, too.”

“Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to get more bookshelves for the poetry. I’m seeing at least ten volumes, maybe an epic or two.” He smiled and placed another small kiss on the top of Crowley’s head. “Our hero – our muse – has quite the history.”

Crowley winced. “Not much there worth a sonnet.”

Aziraphale frowned for a fraction of a second before adjusting his face back to neutral territory. “No avoiding the past, my dear. I’m the one writing the poems, and if I’m going to write what I know… I know us, and not much else. Not with the same level of certainty, anyway.”

“I think maybe we should move away from the whole poetry idea,” Crowley said smoothly. “I’m starting to think you might actually do it, and we can’t have that happening, not if I’m to maintain my sanity.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Aziraphale teased.

“Yes, and I’m regretting it more by the second.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale paused for a moment in thought. “I can think of plenty of other ways to demonstrate my appreciation for you. And I’ve got all the time in the world. We both have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request was Aziraphale/Crowley and "things you said too quietly." I took it to some places. I could take it more places, if the public demands it (I'm hinting at a second part with a lot less talking).  
> "Gilbert," "Passion," and "Regret" are all poems by Charlotte Brontë. Title is from "Passion." Quoted in this work are "Passion" and "Regret." Consider this an explicit endorsement of Charlotte Brontë and all of her writings.


	2. rosy riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale delivers on some promises, in a very physical manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got some eager requests to take this to some more places, and oh boy did i ever take it. it's the most shamelessly self-indulgent smut, read with caution.

“Tell me what you want.” 

Aziraphale whispered the words, his lips grazing Crowley's ear, his breath ragged. Crowley sighed at the feather-light contact and closed his eyes tight. 

“You,” he whimpered. “I want you.”

Aziraphale tugged at Crowley's earlobe gently with his teeth. “You have me.”

Crowley let out a soft cry. “Just you,” he said, hardly managing to get it out.

The angel moved to suck a spot on Crowley's collarbone, hard, before speaking. “Crowley, please.” He punctuated his request with a light nip at the demon's throat. “Please tell me how to make you feel good.”

Crowley inhaled sharply. “I…” he trailed off, turning his head to the side.

“Shh,” Aziraphale soothed. He pressed a kiss to the demon’s temple, catching a tear with a soft flick of his tongue. 

“I love you,” Crowley sighed.

“I know, I know.” Aziraphale ground his hips down against Crowley’s, eliciting a low groan. He tilted Crowley’s chin to face him, and the demon reluctantly looked up at him. His slitted pupils were dilated, softening the serpentine appearance of his golden eyes. Aziraphale fixed him with an intense gaze.

“I want to give you what you need. Please.” He leaned down once more to kiss Crowley’s lips tenderly, slowly, before moving to suck and lick at his jawline. Crowley moaned again, bringing his slender hands to rest on the angel’s soft waist.

“I want you to take me.” 

Aziraphale breathed a soft sigh of relief. “Tell me how you want it.” He dipped low to suck a nipple into his mouth with a light scrape of his teeth. 

“ _ Angel _ .” Crowley choked on a soft moan.

“Yes, love,” the angel murmured, “so let me show you heaven.”

“Blasssphemer,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Nothing blasphemous about bringing heavenly bliss to those who deserve it.”

“Angel, please.”

“Please, what?” Aziraphale's hot breath ghosted across Crowley's skin.

“Please touch me,” the demon whined.

Aziraphale turned his head so his cheek was flat on Crowley's chest, feeling his heartbeat and his ragged breath. “I am touching you,” he said. 

Crowley bucked his hips, rubbing against the angel in a way that elicited an obscene moan. Aziraphale responded in kind, turning to place a hot, wet kiss on Crowley's throat, sucking hard on the delicate skin. 

“Aziraphale,” the demon gasped, “fuck me, pleasssse.”

Aziraphale sat up, straddling Crowley’s hips and looking down at him fondly. “Ah,” he said gently, “that I can do.”

Crowley cried out in relief after what felt like hours of foreplay. Every nerve in his body wound tight, he felt Aziraphale’s movements and touches tenfold. The angel had insisted upon taking it slow this time, making sure Crowley got the appreciation he deserved. “I want to make it all about you,” he had said, and Crowley had gone weak in the knees, even as he tried to protest. He could talk a big game to the outside world, but in the safety of his angel’s arms, he was prepared to admit that he didn’t think he deserved the care and attention Aziraphale paid him. 

Now, however, in the thick of it, he felt very much like he deserved it, wanted it, needed it. The throbbing arousal between his legs had gone all but ignored up to this point, and he ached for some kind of stimulation. 

Aziraphale delivered, as always, dipping low in one swift movement, placing his hands firmly on either side of Crowley’s waist before leaning in to taste him. The angel’s hum of appreciation mingled in the air with Crowley’s moan of pleasure as his tongue explored the slick heat. He circled the demon’s clit expertly, swirling and sucking the way he knew Crowley liked it, relishing the moment when Crowley’s hands moved down to tangle in his hair.

Crowley thought, as coherently as he could form a thought at that moment, that he didn’t feel so bad about being the center of attention now, especially given how much Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying it. The angel had always been one to indulge decadently in anything that brought him joy, and this was one such thing. The fact that it served the dual purpose of forcing Crowley to accept love and pleasure was the cherry on top.

Aziraphale intensified his task, one hand tightening its grip on Crowley’s waist while the other moved downward. He slipped two fingers into the wet warmth of Crowley, working them deftly without stopping the poetic movement of his mouth. Crowley moaned something that sounded like it could have been “Aziraphale,” by some stretch of the imagination, and the angel placed a small kiss on the inside of his thigh and moved to level their faces again. 

Crowley’s mouth hung open, his eyes closed, and he was panting softly. He looked up at Aziraphale after a moment, just in time to see the angel lift his right hand to his mouth, licking Crowley’s taste off his fingers. He twined the same hand in the demon’s hair, lifting his head slightly to bring their faces together, tongues and teeth and lips meeting chaotically. Crowley tasted himself, and under that, the unmistakable flavor of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale pulled back and let Crowley’s head drop gently back on the bed. He licked his lips, his gaze burning into the demon’s eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” he repeated. “Tell me again.”

Crowley exhaled, long and slow. “I want you to fuck me,” he said slowly, confidently. “I want you to come inside me.”

Their eyes still locked, they gasped in unison as Aziraphale entered Crowley, stilling for a moment before he began to fuck into him in earnest. With the combination of the look on Crowley’s face, the wet heat of him, and the sounds he was making, Aziraphale had to fight not to come immediately. He reached a hand between them to thumb at Crowley’s clit, smiling at the way the demon inhaled sharply and tightened reflexively around him.

Aziraphale leaned down until his lips grazed Crowley’s ear. “I love you,” he whispered, and then, “You’re perfect.” Crowley came with a cry, and Aziraphale followed soon after. 

He miracled the mess away and collapsed half on top of Crowley, continuing to mouth at his throat and jaw as the demon willed himself not to start crying now.  _ One day _ , Aziraphale thought, feeling the movement of Crowley’s throat as he swallowed back tears,  _ one day he’ll understand _ . He turned his head and whispered again, softer, “You’re perfect.”  _ One day he’ll know how true it is. _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [like trees to tempest-strife [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627867) by [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter)




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